


so you think you can tell

by interestobscura



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: i want scylla's backstory so much i wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interestobscura/pseuds/interestobscura
Summary: Nothing really dies. Life becomes death, which becomes life again.you nod absently, more focused on the way the white petals reflect the moonshine with every tilt than your mother’s words.it’s only later that you realize the true value of those words, when they become the mantra that holds you together as you stumble away from the howling wind, leaving behind everything you knew and loved.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	so you think you can tell

_so, so you think you can tell_  
_heaven from hell_  
_blue skies from pain?_

_\---_

you had your mother’s eyes. 

it’s what they always told you. your father would settle you on his lap and tell you how your mother’s eyes were the first thing that drew him in, and once she caught him with those baby blues and flashed him a playful smile, he was a goner. you remember being so proud of the way yours did the same, the way you could just look at him and he'd melt, going along with whatever game you wanted to play.

you also remember how they were the last things you saw when they pulled you away. your mother, staring at you with those eyes desperate with love and fear, screaming at you to get out. 

you have your mother’s eyes, and you can pinpoint exactly when that went from being a comfort to something you desperately want to forget. 

you don't look in the mirror much anymore.

you don't like what you see.

\---

you’re bored.

and hungry, and exhausted, and _scared_ , but most of all, you’re just plain bored.

idleness has never suited you, and there really isn’t much intellectual stimulation to be gained from staring at grey walls and those damned spotlights all day. plus, whenever your chains rattle too much, it triggers the Seed that leaves you nauseous and shaking, with an irritating whine that lingers your ears for the rest of the day. it rules out humming, too. 

so it’s just you, alone and bored, in a cage. too often, you find your mind drifting to your family. it’s been a long time since you’ve allowed yourself to think about them, and there’s never been a worse time to reminiscence than now. but you’re alone, and Anacostia hasn’t come to see you in days, so there’s really no one to mock but yourself. ~~and you miss them desperately~~ and you’re bored.

so you allow yourself (allow is not the right word. it’s more like a tide you can’t stand against) to remember the way your mother’s hands cupped around yours, the way she gently (always so gentle, even to the end) guided you through your seeds. your father’s joyful embrace, the first time you proudly presented him with the rumpled flower you grew out of the fertile earth. 

it’s a small relief, that they will never see the mess you are now. there are choices you've made that are unforgivable.

but god, you miss them.

\----

your mother takes you out on a tuesday. as usual, it’s dark and foggy, the only time you’re really free to roam. always in the safety of shadows. she leads you into the undergrowth, her steps featherlight through the leaves, while you stumble carelessly after. you’re fascinated by the way the moonlight weaves through the strands of her dark hair, highlighting the edges of her braids, turning her plain figure into something ethereal and awe-inspiring. you think that if only the civilians could see her like this, so peaceful in the moonlight, they’d never say those hurtful things about witches, never dare raise a hand to hurt her. 

she crouches down in the foliage, beckoning you over. you’re young enough that even crouching, she comes up to your eye level, and you look where she's pointing to see a mouse, lying unmoving atop the leaves. it is curled into itself, fur matted with dark blood, and your eyes blur with tears when you realize how small it is, how fragile. 

your mom takes your hand and starts humming a quiet seed. from the creature’s body, something takes hold, starts to sprout. you blink away tears as a white flower emerges, glowing faintly in the dark. the petals unfurl one by one, until the seed draws to a gentle close, and in the ensuing silence the forest around you hums with life, benign power resting in every fallen leaf and sturdy tree. you forget your sadness, reaching out to brush a careful finger along the petals. 

_nothing really dies. life becomes death, which becomes life again._

you nod absently, more focused on the way the petals reflect the moonshine with every tilt than your mother’s words.

it’s only years later that you realize the true value of those words, when they become the mantra that holds you together as you stumble away from the howling wind, leaving behind everything you knew and loved. 

it’s not enough.

it never is.

\--

_why?_

it’s more accusation than question the first time Anacostia poses it.

_i'm afraid you have to be more specific_

it’s almost a relief, to see her stony glare once more. you thought she’d be gone as soon as you gave up what little information you were worth.

_why kill so many people? why join the spree?_

you laugh disbelievingly. 

_you can’t be serious_

but she just stares at you with what looks like genuine curiosity, and your laugh ripples, turns hollow. after all that pain, after everything the military ripped away from her, and still she believes. you know the system has been cruel to her as much as it was to you, but you've never in her presence seen her waver from the cause. a true soldier, carved out by general Alder herself. if you weren’t in chains before her, you’d almost feel sorry. 

as it stands though, there isn’t much pity you can muster. 

you don’t say a word, and she leaves soon after.

\---

your reflection doesn't show. only that balloon, somehow managing to be menacing despite itself, slowly winding it's way along the surface of the glass.

you feel a measure of relief, that you can't see your own face while you're doing this. you don't know what your expression is like, don't want to know if the smugness you've plastered on like a wish ever falters.

it's a slow process, learning how to change yourself. but you keep at it, because the you that once was died a long time ago, and this feels right.

you've always felt like an imposter in your own skin anyway. might as well make it manifest.

the flames flicker in the edges of your vision, and it reminds you of the way your family burned.

you are spree.

\---

you’re standing at a shopping mall, holding a balloon.

the blue seems to mock you, swaying innocently about in the cold winter breeze. your eyes and hands are not your own, and your body feels foreign, yet you know with a deep rooted certainty that doing this will change you forever. 

you hear laughter all about you, smell cinnamon and honey in the air. 

you want to throw up. 

you close your eyes and think of your mother, raising life and honoring death. your father, with his warm hands and warmer smile. you can’t really remember how you ended up here, the choices you made that brought you to this moment, but you know, as sure as you know anything, there’s no way out.

what choice do you have left? what alternatives can an orphan afford?

the balloon explodes, and you walk away. 

you can only pretend ( _life becomes death_ ) that their screams don't reach your ears.

\---

_and did you exchange_  
_a walk on part in the war_  
_for a leading role in a cage?_

**Author's Note:**

> i admit it, i will always love my beautiful flawed idiot villains. i collect them. they are mine now.
> 
> title and song lyrics from wish you were here by pink floyd


End file.
